Dry as Rain (32 page)

“Looks like you both do.” Her gaze slid across the freshly painted walls and stopped at the piano. A look of recognition passed over her. “That looks just like my old . . .” She walked over to it and sat down on the bench.

I held my breath. I'd spent at least an hour every night for the past few months working to refurbish it. Her fingers traced the key cover and slowly she opened it. She looked up at me as her hand flew to her chest. “It
is
mine. Where did you . . . ?”

I walked over and sat beside her, trying not to be obvious as I inhaled her vanilla-almond scent. “It's not like we got rid of it. It was always in storage.” I realized then why she'd acted so bitter about me replacing it with the baby grand. “You didn't know that, did you?”

She shook her head, looking like she might cry. “I guess I just assumed . . .”

I didn't bother saying what we were both probably thinking.

Bending over, she touched the scrolled legs. “It looks like new. When did you have it redone?”

“He did it himself,” Benji said.

With the sleeve of my shirt, I dusted off the keys. “Except the tuning. I had to hire someone for that.”

When she wiped at the corner of her eyes, I knew I had done all right.

“Play something, Mom.”

She looked up at Benji, then set her fingertips down. The old piano didn't have the satiny sound the baby grand did, but watching Kyra play with her eyes closed, completely engrossed in the music, made it sound like a song from heaven.

Suddenly, as if ripped back into reality, she stopped playing and turned to me. “I never knew you wanted to own a restaurant.”

“I don't,” I said.

She gave me a questioning look and then Benji.

Benji bounced around like he used to do on Christmas morning. “Dad, show her the sign.”

A curious smile worked its way across Kyra's mouth. “What sign?”

“Well,” I said, standing, “I was going to wait until your birthday to show you, but I guess the jig's up.”

“The jig?”

I took her by the hand and led her outside. The sun was preparing to set, and the horizon had never looked more lovely with its blending hues of orange, pink, and purple. Waves roared in the distance, and as I stood there beside my wife, wishing she was still wearing my ring, I had to fight an overwhelming urge to kiss her.

Benji stood on the other side of his mother looking up at the tarp covering the sign. “Can I do it?”

“You want a drum roll?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said.

I looked at Kyra. “You're the musician.”

She moved her wrists up and down in quick succession, accompanying it with the appropriate sound. Benji waited for her to hit the pretend crash cymbal, then yanked the end of the tarp revealing a blue shingle hanging from thin metal chains. The white cursive letters read
Kyra's by the Sea.

Her eyes turned into saucers as her mouth dropped to the sand. “I don't understand.”

My stomach was tied in knots as I choked out, “Happy birthday, honey.”

She looked troubled. “You named your restaurant after me?”

It dawned on me then that she might have outgrown this dream. “No, I named
your
restaurant after you. But if you don't want it,” I said, “we can sell, or—”

“I'll take it,” Benji said.

Kyra made a face at him. “Back off, Benjamin. It's my birthday, not yours.”

“So you like it?” he asked.

She stared up at it and finally, reluctantly, turned to me and gave me a hug. It wasn't the reaction I dreamed of all these months, but it was more than I hoped for.

“I'm going to need someone to help me manage it,” she said.

“Guess I'm free for the next twenty years,” I said.

Her skin flushed. “I'm not talking about getting back together.”

“Of course not.”

“Just a business partnership.”

“That's all,” I agreed. “You're going to need somewhere to stay, aren't you?”

“We have an extra bedroom,” Benji offered—a little too eagerly, I thought. I wanted to tell him to go easy so he didn't scare her off.

She gave me a stern look. “Just until I get my own place.” Turning back to the sign, she smiled. “So, when do we open?”

“It's up to you,” I said. “It's Kyra's by the Sea, not Eric's.”

Looking at her profile, my heart melted.

“Can I show her the rest?” Benji asked.

“There's more?” she asked.

I took her hand and walked her over the hill. I pointed to the docked troller in the distance. “That's Benji's.”

She furrowed her brow. “The pier?”

“No, the boat. Dad bought it for me,” Benji said. “We're in the fishing business now too.”

“We are?” she asked, not realizing what she'd just implied.

“We're renting it out for now. We've got a deal with a local guy: in addition to rent, he has to supply all the seafood we need for the restaurant.”

“Wow,” she said. “I feel like I went to sleep and woke up in Wonderland.”

I slipped my fingers into hers. “What are you thinking?” I asked.

“Just that I'm happy.” She looked down at our hands together and back up at me. “This doesn't mean we're back together.”

“I know,” I said, though neither of us let go.

Forty-One

Days turned into weeks as the three of us worked to put the finishing touches on Kyra's by the Sea. By day, you would never know we were anything but a happy little family, working side by side to accomplish a common dream.

By night, we mostly did our own thing. Her on her side of the rental house, me on mine. Gradually, she joined Benji and me in front of the TV. At first she sat on the opposite end of the couch, then closer and closer, until one night, it hit me that she was lying beside me watching the evening news, with her hand in mine and my ring back on her finger. I was afraid to say anything about it for fear I would ruin the miracle I'd been given.

The day before our grand opening, Benji walked through the restaurant door holding a bag. Kyra finished the song she had been practicing and walked over to him. “Did you get it?”

He pulled a small lamp out of a shopping bag and handed it to her. “Is this okay?”

She held it up like it was some kind of trophy. “It's perfect.”

I watched her walk over and set it on the small table beside her piano. “Hey, baby, if you need more lighting I could turn up the spotlight,” I offered.

She grimaced. “Please don't. I'm already going to need sunglasses to play.”

“So, why the lamp?”

Her fingertips trailed down the small column base. “I just don't want to ever forget.”

“Forget what?”

She gave me a look that told me I ought to know. “Do you really have to ask?”

I started to say no, I didn't have to ask, but I was working hard to break myself of that habit. Instead of pretending to know what I didn't, I said, “I have no idea.”

She frowned. “What color is this, my love?”

“Tan.”

“Try again.”

Then it hit me and I smiled. “The beige lamp.”

“You're as smart as you are good-looking.”

“We'll pretend that's a compliment,” I said.

She wrapped her arms around me. “Let's not pretend anything anymore, okay?”

I kissed her forehead. “Deal.”

She went back to stringing white lights on the artificial trees we were using to brighten dark corners, while Benji disappeared into the kitchen to double-check that our newly hired chef had everything he needed for the following day.

I was behind the bar polishing glasses when the red of a woman's dress caught my eye. She was tall, curvy, and pretty enough to be a swimsuit model. My eyes flew to Kyra, who glanced up at her, then went back to winding the string of lights.

“Can I help you?” I asked, stepping out from behind the bar.

She flipped her long dark hair over her shoulder. “The place looks great.”

“Thanks,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

Her eyes moved slowly down me, then back up. “Word on the street is that you're looking for a waitress.” A flirty smile lifted her glossy lips as her painted fingernails traced the base of her neck, just above her cleavage. I refused to let my eyes wander. Instead, I looked at Kyra, who was now watching us intently. I smiled at my wife, thinking how much more beautiful she was than this, or any other, woman and turned back to the brunette. “I'm sorry, but the word on the street is wrong. I have all I need.”

Epilogue

I turned to Kyra to answer the question she had just asked me and found myself, once again, not really seeing her. Sometimes, it was like I was looking through the glasses perched on my nose, vaguely knowing they were there, but not being fully conscious of them. And so, like I did every day for the last twenty years, I forced myself to not just look at her, but actually see her.

Her hair was no longer red, but silver, reminding me more of moonlight than the sunshine it used to be. Although her sweet face was now fractured by fine lines, her skin was still the same lovely porcelain it had always been, and her blue eyes shone every bit as bright as they did on our honeymoon . . . and I thought of that too. Of how she'd made love to me the first time and how I couldn't imagine anything ever comparing. But I had been wrong.

Somehow, even after decades of marriage and familiarity, there were moments we shared, even today, that made that first time pale in comparison. I lived for those moments, and every one in between.

As it turned out, Benji wasn't a commercial fisherman after all, though he seldom spent a day off not trying to put a hook through a gill-breather. To the surprise of all of us, though, he was an incredible cook.

Looking more content than we'd ever seen him, he worked alongside Jim Kelly, who had been the head chef at Sonny's and was now ours, learning all there was to learn. Jim wasn't exactly young anymore, but what he lacked in stamina, he made up for in knowledge. He and Benji made a great team and kept our customers and the critics happy.

It was good to have the chance to watch my son as he discovered his place in the world and even better to have a part in it. Besides helping run our kitchen, he handled the bookkeeping and business end of things. He was surprised to find out what I had known all along: not only was he a natural at business, he actually enjoyed it.

I, on the other hand, did not, so I decided to give fishing a try.

While Benji built his life running the most successful restaurant in Braddy's Wharf, my wife and I dabbled in what we loved—she playing the piano for our patrons and me struggling to earn my captain's license.

Kyra had said it would take a lifetime for her to get over what I'd done, but it didn't. In the end, she forgave me far sooner than I forgave myself.

Looking back on my life, it's strange to think just how far I'd fallen and how far I had to claw my way back up. When I'd first become a Christian, I read what Adam and Eve had done in the Garden of Eden, and it really ticked me off. Now, I knew that I was no different than they were. I guess none of us are.

I would give anything to go back and undo my infidelity, but true to His word, God had used even that for my good. If Kyra and I hadn't weathered our drought, I don't think we would have really appreciated the rains when they finally came. Like Alfred said, without the desert, an oasis is just another watering hole.

A Note from the Author

Dear reader,

Dry as Rain
is a story of infidelity and one couple's decision to forgive and heal together.

There are clear, biblical reasons to divorce, and infidelity is the clearest of all. While we are admonished to forgive, that doesn't always equate to staying together. Realistically, I doubt that most husbands or wives who have done what Eric did repent so quickly or love so deeply.